The Funniest Wedding Prep Ever!

The Parallel Four Book Two Chapter Seven

A Chronicle of Friendship, Love, War, Adventure, and Destiny

Writing The Parallel Four has been a journey in itself—a walk through memories, dreams, and all the little moments that shape who we become. Some parts of this story are true. Some are truer than I’d care to admit. And some—well, let’s just say they’re inspired by what might’ve happened if life had taken a different turn.

The characters you’ll meet in these pages—Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—are fictional, but they live and breathe with the spirit of real people I’ve known, loved, and lost. Their world is stitched together from scraps of real places, actual events, and a few wild yarns that got better with each retelling down the pub.

Poplar, Hitchin, and the snowy reaches of Sweden aren’t just backdrops—they’re characters in their own right. They’ve shaped this story as much as the people in it. And if you happen to recognise a place, a turn of phrase, or a certain kind of mischief from your own youth… well, consider that my nod to you.

This first book takes us from scraped knees to stolen kisses, from playground politics to life’s first real goodbyes. It’s about growing up, making mistakes, and finding the people who’ll stand by you no matter what—even if they sometimes drive you round the bend.

To those who remember the ‘50s and ‘60s—this one’s a memory jogger. To the younger lot—it’s a peek into a time when life moved slower, but feelings still ran just as fast.

And finally, to Stephen, Johan, Vinka, Marlin, Tim, and Petra—six hearts bound by the wonder of first love. Not the fleeting kind that fades with time, but the rare and lasting kind that deepens, steadies, and endures—a love that grows with them, becoming part of who they are, and who they will always be. And though this is only the beginning, the road ahead will test them in ways they cannot yet imagine—through training, through battle, and through the choices that will shape the rest of their lives.

Transcript

Chapter Seven

By the time Marlin and I had scampered upstairs like giddy schoolgirls, leaving our mothers knee-deep in wedding chatter and swatches of lace, the living room had settled into that cosy, fire-crackling hush that only happens when the men have been left alone with their thoughts—and their whisky.

Erik, my papa, was nursing a glass with the kind of quiet concentration he usually reserved for fixing tractors or judging Eurovision entries. Lars, Marlin’s papa, was slouched in the armchair like he’d just been informed he was footing the entire wedding bill. Johan’s dad, Harry, sat opposite them, swirling his drink like he could divine the future in the dregs.

“So,” Papa began, voice slow and thoughtful. “We are going to have... Royal Marines as sons-in-law?”

Lars sighed, long and theatrical. “I always thought she’d marry a nice librarian. Or a quiet dentist.”

Harry chuckled into his tumbler. “Trust me, gentlemen, nothing about these four has ever been quiet.”

Papa rubbed his chin and leaned back, glancing up toward the ceiling as if he could still hear the thud of our excited footsteps. “They love each other,” he said simply. “That’s what matters.”

Lars gave a grunt of agreement, followed by, “Still. Two weddings in one weekend. Do we get a discount for bulk booking?”

Harry laughed so hard he nearly spilled his whisky. “Only if we throw in Petra next.”

My papa raised an eyebrow. “I doubt she’ll be needing help in that department. She's besotted with Tim and he's smitten with her, so there might be a soldier ing the family too.”

Papa just smirked. “No comment.”

For a moment, the room was quiet, save for the fire crackling and someone sniffling from the heat or emotion—or maybe both. Then Lars lifted his glass.

“To our daughters,” he said. “Fierce, brilliant, terrifying girls.”

“And the poor bastards marrying them,” Harry added.

They all laughed, clinked glasses, and drank deep. And upstairs, as Marlin and I lay in bed giggling under the covers like teenagers, I felt a wave of peace wash over me. Our fathers approved—even if they’d never say it outright.

And that, as far as I was concerned, was the real green light.

The church bells were still echoing over the snowy rooftops as we spilled out onto the steps, breath fogging in the crisp air, cheeks pink from the warmth inside and the joy of the service. The wooden church in the centre of the village had never looked more beautiful—candles flickering in the windows, evergreen garlands wrapped around the rafters, and the pews packed to bursting with family and neighbours and more knitted jumpers than a winter market stall.

Stephen gave my gloved hand a gentle squeeze as we stepped into the sunlight, our boots crunching softly in the fresh snow. Johan and Marlin were just ahead, sharing a quiet moment that involved her straightening his scarf like he was five. He didn’t even protest—just beamed at her like a man properly smitten. Tim and Petra were arm in arm and heading for the lodge.

We hovered near the old lychgate, half loitering, half brimming with something unspoken, until uncle Harry sidled up with that signature grin of his. “Right then, who’s getting married and when?” he said, loud enough to turn a few heads.

I felt Stephen stiffen slightly beside me, then he looked at me. I looked at him. We didn’t need words—we’d already whispered the promises during the sermon, between Latin hymns and Swedish psalms.

So I cleared my throat and said, “We’d like to book the church for Easter, please.”

“Same here,” Marlin added, slipping her arm through Johan’s.

There was a moment’s pause—sharp, breathless—before Mama squealed and Papa dropped his hat. Someone in the background let out an enthusiastic “Ooh!” which I’m fairly sure was Petra, despite trying to look shocked and sophisticated at the same time.

The vicar, who was just brushing past in his cassock and very sensible boots, turned mid-step. “Oh? Two weddings? Easter weekend?”

Stephen, bless him, looked almost apologetic. “If you’ve got the space, Reverend.”

The vicar gave a short laugh. “I’ll make the space, lads. That old bell’ll be knackered by Monday.”

Lars was shaking his head with a kind of gruff amusement. “I knew they were up to something this holiday. Marlin’s been humming wedding tunes in her sleep.”

Marlin stuck her tongue out at him, utterly unbothered.

As snow began to drift lazily from the sky, I looked around at the people I loved—the laughter, the teasing, the clapping of mittened hands—and I felt something click into place. Not like falling in love, but like landing. Like home.

Stephen leaned close, his voice a warm whisper in my ear. “We’re really doing it, then.”

“We are,” I smiled. “And you better not be late.”

“Not a chance,” he said, pulling me in for a kiss on the cheek. “I’ve waited too long to miss this.”

And there we were, two couples, arms linked and hearts full, standing in the snow on Christmas morning—officially betrothed, embarrassingly happy, and about to give the entire village the best Easter party it had ever seen.

By the time we got back to the house, it felt like Christmas had somehow tripled in size. The log fire was roaring in the lounge, wreaths hanging slightly askew from excited decorating, and every available surface seemed to sprout a plate of something festive—ginger biscuits, saffron buns, a suspicious-looking jelly cake Petra had made with pride and only minor structural issues.

The moment we stepped inside, Papa,

I swept off his hat and declared, “Two weddings! In one Easter weekend! Lars, we’ll need double beer, double meat, and maybe a priest who doesn’t faint under pressure.”

Lars, already loosening his scarf, nodded solemnly. “And double budget. I’ll need to sell another tractor.”

Mama, bless her, had gone straight into mother-of-the-bride mode. She produced a battered notepad and pencil from somewhere inside her coat like a seasoned general. “Seating, flowers, food, guest list… I’ll need help. Petra?”

Petra looked up from decorating the tree with Tim and gave a sly grin. “Only if I can wear something dramatic and boss people around.”

“Perfect,” Marlin muttered, pouring glögg into mugs.

We were ushered into the lounge like minor royalty—Stephen still grinning like a man who couldn’t quite believe his luck. I perched beside him on the sofa, boots off, feet curled under me, and glanced across at Johan and Marlin. She was now flashing her ring at Petra, who examined it like a museum curator appraising a priceless artefact.

“It’s beautiful,” Petra sighed. “Subtle. Elegant.”

“Like me,” Marlin said with a wink.

“In what universe?” Johan teased, ducking a cushion.

Meanwhile, Papa and Lars had disappeared into the kitchen muttering about hams and hiring musicians. I overheard something about a dance floor in the barn and nearly burst into laughter.

Silvi, sitting beside me now, leaned in and whispered, “We always hoped it would be you two.”

I smiled. “Us too.”

And just like that, with the smell of cloves and pine, the soft crackle of the fire, and laughter bouncing between the wooden beams of our Swedish winter home, the chaos settled into something almost serene.

Marlin raised her glass. “To Easter.”

“To love,” I added.

Stephen leaned in close and murmured, “To terrifyingly enthusiastic in-laws.”

We clinked mugs, smiled through the steam, and let the snow fall quietly outside.

Göteborg Airport, 4th January 1974

The snow had stopped falling hours ago, leaving the world outside the airport draped in a soft, white hush. Everything looked peaceful, calm, like the countryside itself was holding its breath—same as we were.

Inside, the terminal was all fluorescent lights, suitcase wheels squeaking on linoleum, and the constant drone of boarding announcements in three languages. The boys’ flight to London was boarding soon. Too soon.

Stephen squeezed my hand as we stood by the glass, watching the aircraft being de-iced. “Romantic, innit?” he said softly, trying to make me laugh.

I smiled, but my throat was doing that tightening thing again. “So poetic,” I said. “Steam, aviation fuel, and stale meatballs.”

Marlin and Johan were a few feet away, locked in one of those silent embraces that said more than any words ever could. Her cheek was pressed to his chest, his chin resting on her head. I saw Johan blink hard and look up at the ceiling—his classic move when emotions got too loud.

Petra and Tim were in a tight embrace not wanting to let go... Write soldier boy, every week, she said as they separated, then Tim pulled her back into an embrace and kissed her passionately... Then he walked away through security and was gone.

Stephen turned to me then, his smile fading into something gentler. “I hate this bit.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But we’ll be together again before you know it.”

He looked into my eyes like he was memorising them. “We’ve got the date booked. The church, the rings. It’s happening.”

“Yes.” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “It is.”

Then came the announcement—final call. And just like that, the clock resumed.

Stephen kissed me, slow and lingering, right there by the glass. Not hurried. Not showy. Just ours.

“Write to me?” I murmured against his collar.

“Every week. Like homework from the heart.”

Behind us, Johan and Marlin were reluctantly separating. She gave his arm one last squeeze, eyes shimmering. “Be careful.”

“I always am,” Johan replied—then winked. “Except when I’m not.”

The boys slung their bags over their shoulders and joined the queue at the gate, glancing back more times than necessary.

Marlin, Petra and I stood together, side by side, as they disappeared down the airbridge.

“I hate this bit too,” Marlin said softly.

We didn’t cry this time. Not visibly. But something in our chests felt like it had splintered just a little. Not broken—just stretched tight until Easter.

We walked back to the car in silence, the Volvo cold and waiting. As I slid into the passenger seat, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the boarding stub Stephen had handed me earlier like a keepsake.

I tucked it into the dashboard.

Four months. We could do this.

After all, we were soldiers now.

And soldiers wait—for orders, for duty, for love.

And love… love was worth every second.

Meanwhile, Tim—my beloved younger brother and lifelong homework dodger—had somehow managed to shock everyone by failing his first Army entrance test. The recruiter didn’t sugar-coat it either: “If you can’t pass this, mate, you’re better off learning to make sandwiches.” Brutal. Naturally, Tim was gutted. That Saturday, he asked me to go for a walk—never a good sign. When your little brother asks for a quiet chat without food or rugby involved, you know something’s up. He confessed what had happened, shoulders hunched like a scolded schoolboy, and asked me—big brother to little—what he should do. I gave him the only advice that mattered: stop mucking about, get stuck into the books, and actually turn up at school for once in your life.

To his credit, he did. Come Monday morning, Tim had turned into an academic whirlwind. He went to every class, volunteered for after-school sessions, and even put himself into voluntary detention—which, I’m fairly certain, is a first in the entire history of education. He practically moved into the school library, haunting the stacks like some scholarly ghost. Word got round that the teachers thought he was a new student—one even asked what school he’d transferred from. That’s how much of a transformation it was. And you know what? It paid off. The next time he took the tests, he passed. Now, I wouldn’t be shocked if his mate Ron quietly slipped him a few hints on the sly, but either way, he’d done it. He secured his place as a junior soldier in the Queen’s Division—Royal Anglian Regiment. I was properly proud. From classroom ghost to Queen’s man. Not bad for someone who used to claim a nosebleed every time you mentioned maths homework.

When Tim wrapped up his Junior Soldier training, he and his gang were fast-tracked into the adult infantry programme at the twelve-week mark—presumably because they already knew how to iron their kit, polish their boots, and shout “Yes, Corporal!” with just the right mix of fear and volume. They breezed through the rest of the course, and before long, Tim was posted to the 2nd Battalion, The Royal Anglian Regiment, stationed in Münster, Germany—the very same town where I’d done that school exchange a few years ago. He was buzzing. Ever the enthusiast, he told me everything—about his training, his section, the battalion’s proud history, most of which he’d apparently inhaled straight from the Regimental library. But it wasn’t all plain sailing. His instructors picked up on something during the early weeks—Tim was working harder than anyone, but often seemed completely muddled by what he was reading. After a few quiet chats and some proper testing, they finally gave it a name: dyslexia. Suddenly, it all made sense. The education officer took him under his wing like some kind of regimental fairy godfather, and helped him square things away. From that moment on, the fog started to lift—and Tim began to thrive, it had been seen in school but little help was given, but he did persevere.

I told him how gutted I was to have missed his passing out parade, but I’d just landed in Northern Ireland and getting leave at that point was about as likely as a day without rain. Tim, ever the good sport, just waved it off with that grin of his and said he understood. “Besides,” he added, “I was a bit busy anyway—rugby season.” And he wasn’t kidding. He’d been picked for the battalion team and was already making a name for himself—causing havoc for opposing sides wherever he played. Scrum half, fly half, full back—it didn’t matter. If there was a ball and a gap, Tim was in the middle of it, grinning like a lunatic and leaving bruised bodies in his wake. The lad had found his stride. And it wasn’t just on the parade ground anymore—it was out there on the pitch, in front of his mates, showing what he was made of.

Our section was responsible for rural patrols—trudging across fields, through farms, and up hills that defied gravity and logic. We got to know every cow by name, every dog by bark, and every pothole by how much it ruined your ankles. We became masters of the “nod and smile” diplomacy, chatting to farmers who’d seen more soldiers than sheep. Some were friendly, offering mugs of tea so strong they could dissolve a spoon. Others just stared like we’d trampled through their daffodils in jackboots, which—let’s be honest—was entirely possible.

Occasionally we’d get the excitement of a vehicle checkpoint, which meant standing in the rain pretending not to shiver while waving cars through and trying not to get run over. I swear, half the locals thought we were part of some elaborate practical joke.

But through it all—mud, monotony, and moody sheep—Johan and I kept each other sane with our usual banter, letters from the girls, and the firm belief that somewhere out there, Vinka and Marlin were doing something much cooler. Probably sipping coffee with diplomats or decrypting coded enemy messages. Meanwhile, I was trying to fish a half-submerged boot out of a stream with a stick and an existential crisis.

Ah, the glamour of active service.

That said, all those gruelling exercises had done their job. We were well-drilled and ready for action… had there been any. Most of our time was spent patrolling the border, setting up camouflaged OP's—Observation Posts, for the uninitiated—and perfecting the fine art of staying awake while watching absolutely nothing.

Seriously, I could’ve earned a degree in Advanced Staring. Day after day, squinting through a pair of fogged-up binos at a field that hadn’t changed since the Bronze Age. We got so used to the stillness that when a cow sneezed near our hide, I nearly dropped my rifle.

To our good fortune—or slight disappointment, depending on how bored we were—this was a quiet spell. The real fireworks were all happening further north in Belfast, or in Derry’s more enthusiastic neighbourhoods like the Bogside and Creggan. Us? We were treated to scenic views of rolling hills, relentless drizzle, and sheep. So many sheep. I began to suspect they were the local militia in disguise—covert woolly agents keeping tabs on our every move. One even winked at me once. Probably just a twitch… but you never know.

And then there were the tractors. Now, I’m not saying they were definitely suspicious, but when you’ve been trained to detect threats in the undergrowth, and a Massey Ferguson trundles past for the third time in two hours with the same bloke in the same flat cap… well, you start asking questions. Quietly. To yourself. While pretending to tie your bootlace.

Still, compared to Lympstone, it was a holiday. A damp, tense, weapons-loaded holiday—but a holiday nonetheless.

We were based at Bessbrook Mill—also known as “the place where excitement went to die.” A drab, concrete fortress dressed up as an old linen mill, now doubling as a forward base for Royal Marines with low expectations and damp socks. Our daily routine was a thrilling cocktail of rural patrols, Observation Posts, and standing in Sangers—those concrete sentry boxes that looked like they were designed by someone who really hated joy.

We perfected the art of walking very slowly across open fields, whispering like spies in a bad radio drama, and convincing ourselves we were invisible behind a single branch. Most of the time, we weren’t even patrolling dangerous territory—we were just walking loops past the same soggy hedge, hoping the sheep weren’t taking the mick.

When we weren’t soaked to the bone, frozen solid, or being quietly digested by our own webbing, we retreated to our bunks and wrote letters. Long ones. Rambling ones. Love letters, wedding plans, future daydreams—anything to distract from the freezing wind rattling the tin roofs. I’d sit there, wrapped in a scratchy blanket, trying to hold a pen steady enough to scribble something vaguely romantic to Vinka without it looking like a ransom note.

That was the strange thing—among all the drizzle and dullness, those letters became our salvation. I’d write to Vinka about wedding suits, cake flavours, and how I missed the sound of her laugh more than hot showers. Johan, same story with Marlin. Our future kept us warm—well, that and the occasional cup of Naafi tea so weak it looked like it’d been shown a teabag from across the room.

But still, we carried on. Soggy, sleep-deprived, and half convinced the sheep were laughing at us—but carrying on all the same.

Dear Stephen,

You’d laugh if you saw me right now. I’m sitting in the break room at the office, feet tucked under me on this ridiculous orange sofa, sipping bad Swedish instant coffee that tastes suspiciously like cardboard. Marlin is opposite me, filing something deadly serious while humming Abba under her breath. The contrast is delightful.

We had a meeting with our new boss today. He’s still trying to figure out whether to be impressed or terrified. I think we confuse him. He asked Marlin to translate a letter from Arabic and she had it done in twenty minutes—while eating a cinnamon bun and correcting his grammar in the Swedish draft. I may have laughed a little too loudly. He blinked at us like we were aliens. I suspect we’ll be running this place by Easter.

I dreamt of you last night. You were standing at the foot of the bed, dripping wet and covered in mud, holding a bouquet of wildflowers and grinning like you’d just won a pub quiz. You said, “Sorry love, Dartmoor got a bit clingy,” then handed me the flowers and collapsed on the duvet. I think my subconscious misses you.

Are you staying warm enough? That jacket you took looked like it had more holes than stitching. I hope it’s serving you better than your boots, which I suspect are plotting mutiny. Please be safe. Don’t go charging at anything unless it’s a bakery or me.

Tell Johan that Marlin sends her love—and that if he doesn’t write back soon, she’ll be forced to interrogate him via telegram. Brutally.

I can’t wait to marry you. I think about it all the time. Even the boring bits, like paperwork and seating charts. I imagine you sitting beside me in the car after the wedding, both of us tired, smiling, wondering how we pulled it all off.

Stay strong, my darling. Keep your toes dry. And if you must get covered in mud, at least make it poetic.

All my love,

Vinka

Right then—picture this: Johan and me, huddled in a half-collapsed OP made of sticks, moss, and sheer optimism, halfway up a hill that probably didn’t even have a name. Wind whistlin’ through the gaps in our cam net like it was auditionin’ for a haunted house, and rain coming in sideways just to be extra personal.

I’d just finished reading the latest letter from Vinka. It smelled like her—lavender, or whatever she sprays in the air after she’s cleaned her boots. The ink was slightly smudged from the weather or my fingers or both, but every word hit home like a warm hand on the back of the neck.

Johan clocked the look on my face straight away.

“You’ve been kissed by paper again, haven’t you?”

“Letter from Vinka,” I said, trying not to grin like a loony. “She says she misses me like mad… and that if I don’t come back in one piece, she’s going to break into the MOD and drag me home by my webbing.”

Johan chuckled and broke off a bit of mint cake, the only ration bar that doubles as emergency roof insulation. “Marlin’s the same. She keeps sneaking little hearts in the margins of her reports. If anyone else saw it, I’d never hear the end of it.”

I passed him the letter. “Go on, have a read. She’s written you a line too—calls you ‘Sweden’s most stubborn Viking.’ Said to tell you if you don’t write back this time, she’s sending Petra.”

He laughed. “In which case, I’m writing tonight.”

For a few golden minutes, we forgot the cold, the rain, and the sheep giving us side-eye. There, in a muddy hollow in the middle of South Armagh, love managed to sneak in—wrapped in lavender paper and beautiful handwriting—and remind us what we were fightin’ for. Or at the very least, what was waiting when we got home.

By the time we rolled back into Plymouth from Northern Ireland—weather-beaten, sleep-deprived, and carryin’ the faint scent of damp webbing and boiled socks—a bleedin’ miracle had happened. The paperwork. All of it. Sorted. I’m talkin’ through the Navy, through the embassy, even through some bloke in Whitehall who probably thought we were marrying princesses, not two brilliantly bonkers Swedish girls who could drink us under the table and out-argue a solicitor.

We were good to go—officially sanctioned to marry “foreign nationals,” as the letters so diplomatically put it. And not just any nationals—Vinka and Marlin, in all their blue-eyed, sharp-tongued, knee-melting glory.

And as if the universe had decided to chuck us a bone, we’d landed a right little gem of a flat down in Plymouth. Two bedrooms, living room, proper bath (with hot water, no less), and—get this—fully furnished. Fully. As in sofas, tables, wardrobes, curtains, even a telly with dodgy reception and one of them wobbly aerials you had to stand next to like a human lightning rod to get a clear picture. No one knew who’d sorted it before us, but the place looked like someone’s nan had decorated it in the 1950s and then just… legged it. We weren’t complainin’. Beds were comfy, the kettle worked, and there was even a wine rack. A wine rack, I tell you. The first thing we put in it? A four-pack of McEwan’s Export and a bottle of Marlin’s mum’s homemade schnapps. Classy.